


three times isabela almost kissed hawke (and the one time she did)

by imperialdragonborn



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 19:19:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5060836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperialdragonborn/pseuds/imperialdragonborn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three kisses that never happened and one that did</p>
            </blockquote>





	three times isabela almost kissed hawke (and the one time she did)

The first time, they’re in the Chantry.

Isabela has blood under her nails and a headache blooming, but Hayder is dead and her secret is safe a little while longer. Hawke is a stranger, for the most part, but a beautiful stranger who offered her help free of charge and Isabela’s kissed worse people for worse reasons in her time.

She feels the urge to close the distance like a physical itch, an intense desire to kiss the smirk on Hawke’s face into something even sweeter. But she remembers the group of people stood behind her – Hawke’s brother, her friends – and instead settles for a joke that is more of an offer about company later. The returning gleam in Hawke’s eyes is answer enough.

//

The second time, they’re a tangle of sex-slicked limbs and heaving chests.

Isabela’s rented room in the Hanged Man is far enough towards the back that the noise of the tavern is muted here, almost as though they’re in another world.

Hawke’s hand travels along her thigh, connecting patterns between her freckles like she’s mapping constellations between stars. There’s something tender in her touch, something that makes Isabela pause. She thinks of kissing Hawke, but there’s too much softness at play already, a kiss might feel like something else, something other than a parting touch before she clambers out of bed.

So she doesn’t kiss her, just pats her hip and mumbles something about a good tumble, before rolling away from Hawke and her gentle caresses.

The room feels colder when she stands, and she tries not to think about why.

//

The third time, there have already been a hundred kisses between them. But always carefully planned kisses, kisses in the heat of passion, kisses over drinks, kisses that might never be confused for something else. Something more. Because more has implications and implications are tricky. They’re like storms, hard to navigate, and Isabela’s sailed through her share of choppy waves. She knows they never get easier to sail through.

Isabela’s just returned to Kirkwall. There’s a fancy statue of Hawke in the docks, more tension between mages and templars than ever, and a sick feeling in Isabela’s gut whenever she hears mention of the Champion. The feeling is accompanied by a surety that if she ever belonged here, ever belonged with Hawke, those days have long since sailed on by.

She’s in the Hanged Man when Hawke finds her. She expected Hawke would find her eventually – she’s the Champion, this city is her city now, and there’s no hiding from that.

She expects ranting, resentment, perhaps even hate.

Instead, Hawke is soft. She whispers that she was worried, her fingers curling over the curve of Isabela’s wrist slowly, softly, as though she’s afraid to touch at all, like it might shatter the illusion of her presence. Something sharp aches in Isabela’s chest. In that moment, she’s never wanted to kiss Hawke more.

But things have changed – Hawke is Champion and Isabela is…As she always was. Undeserving of softness and tenderness and that look in Hawke’s eyes that rings of a word she’s scared to even consider.

So she doesn’t kiss her. Just allows Hawke’s fingers to rest against her skin and mutters that she might stick around now, if the Champion can find time for a pirate.

//

The last time, things are different.

The Gallows are burning, people are dying, the world as they both know it is rapidly coming to an end.

Hawke, naturally, is the eye of this storm. Leading them on, leading them through, anchoring them together in a way Isabela might never have thought possible, were it anyone but Hawke she was dealing with.

Isabela watches Hawke say goodbyes that she insists _ aren’t _ goodbyes to the others, and feels determination sink like a stone in her gut. She clenches and unclenches her hand, wets her lips.

When Hawke comes to her, Isabela whispers words of love that almost stick her throat, that might have choked her if not for Hawke’s reply. Her words are soft – she’s come to expect nothing but softness, nothing but sweetness from Hawke – and it soothes Isabela’s trembling fingers.

She kisses Hawke in front of everyone, in front of what feels like the whole world. The warmth of it grounds her, settles in her bones, helps her face the end of all days with something that feels suspiciously akin to hope in her heart. She’s never been one for hope – but the promise of Hawke’s lips against hers makes her decide to give it a chance.


End file.
